


Woodedge Outpost

by CozyCryptidCorner



Series: Pride Month Prompts [3]
Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Exophilia, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, Trans Male Reader, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:17:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Prompt:"Trans-FtM reader pre-op, pre-T, who wears binders but still doesn't pass due to having a rather large bust. Werewolf s/o who punches anyone who misgenders him's(with malice, not on accident) lights out."***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	Woodedge Outpost

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is another entry for my Pride Month Prompts! If you would like to submit a prompt, [go to my tumblr page.](https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/185643103389/happy-pride-month)

It always starts the same way whenever you stroll through a new town. The shifting glances. The double takes. The confused exchanges. You’ve gotten used to it long by now, able to ignore it as quickly as background noise as you ride in on your stallion. Most people don’t even spare you more than that, smoothly going on with their day, thousands of chores lined up for those who simply want to survive. It also helps that not all of the attention is on you.

 

Three werewolves ride in the hodgepodge pack that had been shaken up and thrown together by fate, and all of them wear their burn brands proud, staring anyone down who might dare give them the side eye. Though their pupils are slitted and dark against their bright colored irises, most people wouldn’t get that close to a random person to discern their subspecies. While traveling with werewolves does through on an awkward atmosphere on whatever town you enter, you would take a gander that it is much, much better than you moving on your own.

 

You tie your stallion up in the shadiest spot you can find, a water trowel sloshing as several horse muzzles bend over for a long-awaited drink. The sun is already high in the sky, the light beaming down on your back like a laser, leaving a gross puddle of sweat somewhere along your spine. All morning long you have been thinking of the nice cold bath you’ll be taking once your groups had hit Woodedge Outpost, and now you can actually taste the crispness of the water on your tongue.

 

The town’s Inn is definitely what you would call modest, but nowhere near the worst you’ve come across. And, to be completely honest, none of you would be even sleeping under a ceiling if the bandit bust hadn’t gone off so incredibly well, so you count yourself lucky. Everything seems clean, no dust sticking to the mismatched chairs out on the front porch or any of the tables in the common area. The sun bleeds through the window, lighting up the lobby bright enough that you can read through the guest book as the clerk begins to write your troop’s names in fancy cursive.

 

Three keys go out to seven people, but you and Bill Cassidy each share a sly glance as he takes the one going to room number five. The two of you pair up, as per usual, and let the others duke it out over who gets rooms number three and four. Your luck seems to be working its magic, by the time you get into the cramped yet somehow homely space, a small bucket for bathing had already been placed on the floor, right in front of a tiny, cracked mirror.

 

You drop your knapsack on the bed and get to work, scrubbing your arms, legs, stomach, and having Bill get your back. His fingers might linger here and there, but you don’t utter a single word of complaint. The scrub brush is coarse and rough, taking off a layer of skin along with the dust and grime of your journey. When you are satisfied with the cleanliness of your body, Bill takes over the bucket, and you aid him in reaching areas as he had done for you.

 

By the time you are in something more presentable to society, the sun is crawling its way to dusk.

 

“Dinner time?” Bill asks, running his fingers through his dark chestnut hair, then carefully observing his beard in the mirror.

 

“Why not?” Dinner at the Outpost’s only tavern had been agreed on in the morning, and just the thought of something cooked on an actual stove makes your stomach growl in delight.

 

Francis is already finished and out in the common area, throwing knives at a dartboard that’s pinned to the wall. You don’t think whoever hand painted the circle-cut wood board had intended for it to become a chopping block of sorts, but you’d like to see anyone try and talk Francis out of anything. After the two of you enter, Francis glances barely glances up as they toss a knife in Bill’s direction.

 

Bill catches it, just barely before the glinting metal reaches his chest.

 

“Just checking your reflexes,” Francis declares nonchalantly, walking over to the dartboard and yanking their precious knives out.

 

“Well, I’m sure glad that I’m keepin’ up.”

 

Both Bill and you head out, not bothering to walk with the rest of the group. Solitude is rare when you’re out in the wilderness, and the others will surely understand. As you exit the Inn, a kick of dust licks at your ankles, a hard breeze snaking its way through the dirt road. Even with the biting sunlight glaring down into your eyes, the tavern is relatively easy to find, a sign with a large beer keg swinging in the wind.

 

The scent of sizzling food nearly sweeps you off your feet, your mouth instantly watering accordingly. Tables and chairs dot the floor, most mismatched and belonging to separate, perhaps broken sets that didn’t survive the journey west. There’s only one other customer in the entire building, and he’s seated himself up against the bar, nursing a glass of caramel liquid. Bill takes a seat on the far side of the building, away from the windows and sunlight. You finish looking around and quickly follow, sliding against the worn wooden table.

 

“One moment, I’ll be right with ya’ll!” A tall, lanky woman calls from behind the counter, retreating just for a moment into what you assume is the kitchen.

 

“At least this place is clean,” mutters Bill, who had a good long look at the table before sitting down.

 

“I would still eat here, anyway.” You roll your eyes. “Do you smell that food? If I had to go another day on those canned beans, I’d cut up your horse and roast it over a fire.”

 

“Heyyyyyy,” a new voice slurs, one clearly out of sorts on booze. “I don’t remember the good ol’ mayor lettin’  _dogs_  into our town.”

 

“It’s a designated outpost,” Bill says with more calm than you feel, “according to the Warren and Croft treaty, all designated outposts are to have open doors-”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you, wolf, I was talking to your bitch.”

 

Bill stiffens, eyes narrowing until you can barely see his slitted pupils. “What did you say about my man, you old drunk?”

 

 _”Man?”_  Laughter, echoes through the empty room, though it sounds more like choking. “That ain’t no man, wolf. That’s a bitch.”

 

It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, but that doesn’t mean it stings any less. Your stomach drops with a sickening feeling of anger, pain, and a thousand of other emotions that you would have to dwell on to name. Before you can suggest to Bill that maybe the two of you should leave, he’s already slammed his hands on the table.

 

“Say that again one more time.” It’s a dare, one that you aren’t confident he should hold.

 

“Bill-” you try to say, getting cut off by the old fool.

 

“I said,” the idiot straightens his spine and glares at you with hatred so palpable you can feel it bleeding into your skin, “your  _girl’s_  a  _bitch.”_

 

You barely even see Bill get up, but you do hear the sound of fist against face as he punches the drunken old man square in the jaw. The old man howls, but you know that Bill could have easily broken something if he wanted to, and everything still appears to be attached. Before you even get a chance to scold Bill for using violence, your vision zeroes in on the pistol the old man holds, trying to aim with his shaking hands.

 

A loud, audible click sounds out by the counter, easily identified as a shotgun.

 

“I leave for five goddamn minutes, Sawyer, and now you’re all up in these nice gentlemen’s faces.”

 

“He- he  _punched-”_

 

“It’s about some time someone knocks you down the high pedestal of which you placed yourself! It’s a miracle you didn’t die on the way down.” She pops the chamber again for show, a bullet falling uselessly to the floor. “Now get the hell out before I blow your ugly face to god’s doorstep.”

 

For a moment, you think that the drunk might put up more of a fight, but he leaves, albeit mumbling and grumbling all the way out. As soon as the doors swing shut, the woman is making her way over to the table, rifle at her side. “Sorry about all that! What can I getcha?”

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!


End file.
